He Called It Romance
by erbby17
Summary: A single touch can drive a nation mad with pleasure, the exception of which being France, who long ago learned the art of keeping such insanity at bay. He called it romance. And it spread like the plague... FrUK smut! Yay!


_A/N: Started this about a month ago, but with finals and coming home and the holidays coming up, I really had no time to work on it!_

_DISCLAIMER: These two aren't mine. But if they were...this would happen a lot. Plotless smut, AHOY! Enjoy..._

~*~*~*~

"You know I don't trust you."

"Mm, yes, _I_ know, but do you?"

"…what?!"

"Ha ha, oh _mon cher_, you are so cute. If you didn't trust me, then why would you ever agree to such a thing?"

For once, Arthur Kirkland found himself speechless towards that perverted oaf, that sex obsessed frog named Bonnefoy. Of course, this kind of wordless response usually happened whenever Francis proved to be right and Arthur couldn't stand to be the one in the wrong. Thus, he would lose his ability to speak.

"Nothing, hm? As I thought, Arthur, you were always the type to grow silent once cornered."

"I AM NOT CORNERED, YOU BASTARD, I'M JUST…"

"Arthur. Take a look at yourself."

Silence.

"See, you can't! You are blindfolded, which is one of the first signs that you have been cornered by the enemy." The French lover took a second to pause and reconsider his statement, returning with a devilish smile and a heated whispered into his captive's ear. "Of course, the blindfold was _your_ idea."

Shit. Another point for Bonnefoy. Arthur groaned, his head reflexively leaning back, a poor decision for his body to make considering it immediately found Francis' shoulder as a pillow. "I hate you…"

"And I love you, too," Francis spoke softly against those pouting lips, placing an awkward angled kiss upon that willing grimace.

It was true; England hated every fiber of France's existence. But said fibers were the reason that Arthur found it difficult to resist Francis. Oh, the painful task of being a nation trapped in human form; they harbor the same pleasures and desires of those mortal beings, but to a higher degree. A single touch can drive a nation mad with pleasure, the exception of which being France, who long ago learned the art of keeping such insanity at bay. He called it romance. And it spread like the plague (England actually blamed such 'romance' as the cause of the plague), an electric spark firing through Arthur from his lips through his tingling form to his toes.

He reached back, hooking his arm around Francis' neck and pulling him closer, biting and gnawing at lips and tongue and teeth. He hated these times, when Francis was so irresistible, when he tasted so damn good that breaking from such a feast too soon would leave him famished for life. He craved so much of him, and loathed every bit of him that did.

The electric spark still roamed inside, patting his cheeks with flush and striking his groin with need. Arthur let a moan slip inside of Francis' mouth.

"_M-mon Angleterre_, calm down!" Francis unlatched himself from the Briton's hungry hold; if only he could see the look in those blindfolded eyes. "We must handle this situation with care."

Arthur swallowed a lump of impatience and saliva, gasping for breath. "F-fuck," he whined, writhing and contorting his body in Francis' lap. "I c-can't, Francis!"

Smiling, Francis pulled in Arthur's smaller form against his warm chest. "I know, I know," he cooed, placing weightless kisses on the back of Arthur's neck, tracing the small hills of his spine with his lips. "But sometimes, I wonder if it's the wine that makes you kiss me like that."

Arthur simply pouted, the delicate workings of Francis' lips keeping his violence at bay. Of course, this was another time when he fell silent, but not because Francis was right; he just didn't want to admit his lust for that artful tongue. "Whatever," he sighed, his limbs quivering with delight.

Chilled hands roamed up and over Arthur's hips, making their way up his chest, creeping inch by inch. His shirt, lying at the other side of the room, could no longer protect him from those long, skilled fingers. They touched and caressed, claiming sensitive skin in their hold, the response of which was purely sinful.

"Ah," Arthur breathed in sharply, collapsing backwards into Francis' arms. "Why are your hands so damn cold?"

Francis chuckled against the flesh of Arthur's back, his fingers drawing circles over tingling flesh. "Why are you so warm? Is it because of this?" A light bump from his hips to Arthur's backside was all Francis needed to say on how the night would end.

That bulge, so tightly compact in Francis' pants, grinded up against the Briton's behind.

Arthur gasped, the tremors worsening, his body growing weaker in the lover's grip. "Y-yes," he hoarsely admitted, pushing back against it methodically. He cried out softly, a set of teeth nibbling at the nape of his neck.

Francis' presumably cold fingers snaked downwards, crawling over tender abs and sneaking into loosened pants. Thighs received more attention than the member in need, lightly pinching and scratching flesh.

"Fr-francis, stop that, j-just…"

Another bump, another cry.

"Patience, or you won't get your prize."

"Prize? I'd hardly call _th-that_ a prize."

Francis chuckled, his fingers finally gracing over the needy erection and taking hold of it. "You will," he said, delicately wrapping his curled fingers around Arthur's cock, soft massages tracing its underside.

Arthur cried out once more, his moan laced with surprise. Reflexively, he reached back to grip the long blonde strands of Francis' hair, twirling his fingers in knots with the golden locks.

His fingertips continuing to tease, Francis' other hand rested on Arthur's hip and took the moment to skillfully slip back, rubbing the soft round cheek and making way for the eager entrance.

As a finger slid over the opening, Arthur whined, agitation returning to his voice. "Enough…with your h-hands, Francis," he complained, rolling his neck over Francis' shoulder.

"Well, what else would I use to tease you, Arthur," Francis purred sensually, his mouth leaving wet trails of love along Arthur's jaw line.

Arthur shook, a sign that he was on the verge of snapping. He moaned angrily and cried out, winding his hips in Francis' hands. "F-fuck me, already!"

Chuckling, Francis slipped his curious finger into Arthur's entrance, immediately followed by a second one. "One moment, Arthur," he said, both his hands moving in rhythmic exploration, one tracing the curves inside, the other examining a fluid drenched tip.

Arthur's hands released their hold of Francis' hair, reaching for any other sort of anchor to hold himself down. Francis knew his body too well, most of his pleasure spots being toyed with and teased. His spittle filled cries weren't enough to express his delight for this sensory overload. But the bulge from behind was blocked by a wrist. Arthur groaned, too eager for that feeling inside of him. A tear crept from his eye, his teeth clenching in anxiety. "Please," he begged in a soft rasp.

Sighing, Francis' teeth pulled gently at the cloth around Arthur's eyes, returning the gift of sight to the Briton, and he placed a sentimental kiss upon Arthur's temple. "Don't cry," he said, staring into those sparkling eyes. "There's no reason to."

Getting his first glimpse of the frog in nearly an hour, Arthur gave that calm face the biggest scowl he could muster. "I'm not crying," he spat, turning his head away.

Francis smiled and kissed Arthur's messy hair, his hands slipping away from their zones to pull down the other man's trousers. With a zip, Francis was freed down below and began a rhythmic rubbing between Arthur's legs.

Biting his lip, Arthur's stomach flipping nauseously inside, the wait finally reaching an agonizing moment. Every time the tip of Francis' erection grazed his behind, his body jerked in irritation. Giving up and tossing aside what remained of his dignity, Arthur leaned forward, freeing himself from Francis' grasp and looked past his shoulder. "J-just…do me, Fr-francis," he said, feeling the heat of embarrassment on his face.

Francis gave a sly smirk, his lip twitching with zeal. "_Avec plaisir_," he moaned, pressing his tip up against the prepped opening before thrusting deep into the heated Briton.

Trying to grip at the hardwood floor, Arthur let out a cry that would put his gentleman-like nature to shame. Of course, this entire act was enough to do that, sprawled about on all fours with that blasted frog penetrating him, but the sounds that crept from his mouth were just a tad more embarrassing. His back arched to each thrust Francis's hips made and his teeth gently pierced the skin on his bottom lip, trying to suppress those screams of satisfaction.

Chuckling, Francis slowed his tempo and gently pushed his cock as far as he could inside of Arthur, his hands holding onto trembling hips. "Happy now, Arthur?"

A gasped and choked reply of "yes" was met with a roll of Francis' hips, causing that pleasure spot inside to be nicked just right, a whole mess spilling out from Arthur's erection.

Francis clicked his tongue in disapproval, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Arthur's heaving chest. "Not so soon, Arthur, I'm not even close to my limit yet," he said, nipping the younger nation's ear.

"I…d-don't want to…hear that," he whined, his body already worn out from just a few minutes of Francis. His whole body felt numb, except his backside which throbbed of a mixture of strenuous pain and heretical pleasure. But once Francis pulled him back into his lap and his rhythm resumed, soft tingles of pressure pushed themselves against his numbed skin.

Arthur's head whirled about like a ragdoll's, only stopping at the first red light; Francis's tongue deep in his throat. He stifled a moan with little choice, those French fingers marking curving roads along his sweat drenched chest and down to grasp his thighs.

Francis hummed sweet tunes on Arthur's lips and neck, picking the right spots to suckle for English harmonies, his hands guiding the Englishman's rump over his arousal. Delicate licks would make Arthur's insides tighten erotically around Francis, his own climax nearing. His jaw trembled in a moan, slipping up his arms to entwine them around Arthur's, reaching out to hold his hands.

"_Tu es beau_."

Arthur gasped and turned to see glimmering azure gems behind heavy lids. His own hand, wrapped in Francis' elegant fingers, was drawn towards French lips, soft kisses painted upon pale skin. Blushing, Arthur turned his head to cut the vision from his eyes. Damn that frog; his art of romance was such a formidable weapon to which Arthur fell prey on many occasions.

"Dammit," Arthur struggled to cry, squirming in Francis' lap. Each one of his fingers was splayed out to be suckled and kissed as the French nation's rhythm began to falter. His heated breaths upon the saliva stained fingers of the former empire brought Arthur to his second climax of the evening. "Francis, this is…"

And then he screamed. Deliciously, as Francis put it later that night. Both men came, their ecstasy evident in the tone of their harmonizing cries.

Francis held Arthur's hand tight until he was completely drained of stamina. He pulled out with careful gentility and hooked his arm under the Briton's knees, cradling the man's limp form in his arms. "You are…too cute when you gasp for breath," he said, rubbing his nose to Arthur's bright pink one.

Fighting off the love bites and Eskimo-kisses, Arthur's face burned with more than post-coital exhaustion. "G-get off of me, you git, give me some air!"

France laughed and in ignoring the protests, resumed nuzzling Arthur's neck and decorating it with the light moisture of his lips. Reaching behind, he grabbed the discarded blindfold and smirked as he began to wipe off the Arthur's fluid covered legs. He reveled in the sharp breaths and grumbles from the other party and flicking the soiled rag in the Briton's face, smirked. "Well, there goes the blindfold. What shall we use on our next bodily venture?"

The shade of red that conquered Arthur's face could not match any known color. He merely stared back and forth between that horrid smirk and the dirtied rag, and only incoherent mumbles answered Francis.

Perhaps the next toy would be of a French choice…

~*~*~*~

_HA HA, oh Francis. I love you. And...I guess a blindfold's not **really** a toy but...in this case, it is. XD THANKS FOR READING!!!_

**_~erbby_**


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